


Let's Not Shit Ourselves  by HeartOfGlass

by StrengthThroughWounding



Category: AFI, AFIslash
Genre: Angst, Dark, Drug Use, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slash, Touring, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 12:25:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3067772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrengthThroughWounding/pseuds/StrengthThroughWounding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this is not me saying that I'd not do it again / this is maybe one day.../ this is 'there I go again'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Not Shit Ourselves  by HeartOfGlass

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by both Lover I don't have to love (bright eyes) and baby girl, I'm a blur (say anything). Clearly it's not a direct depiction of either... I'm normally somewhat opposed to assigning drug habits to normally straight edge people, and almost considered a different pairing for this. for a few reasons though, i felt this was the way it had to be, and I'm really sorry if it offends anyone!

  
[Let's Not Shit Ourselves ](http://afislash.com/viewstory.php?sid=8241) by [HeartOfGlass](http://afislash.com/viewuser.php?uid=3162)  


  
Summary: this is not me saying that I'd not do it again / this is maybe one day.../ this is 'there I go again'  
Categories: [Javey](http://afislash.com/browse.php?type=categories&catid=2) Characters:  None  
Genres:  Alt. Universe, Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort  
Warnings:  None  
Challenges:  
Series: None  
Chapters:  1 Completed: Yes   
Word count: 7765 Read: 787  
Published: 04/05/2010 Updated: 05/04/2010 

Story Notes:

This is inspired by both Lover I don't have to love (bright eyes) and baby girl, I'm a blur (say anything). Clearly it's not a direct depiction of either... I'm normally somewhat opposed to assigning drug habits to normally straight edge people, and almost considered a different pairing for this. for a few reasons though, i felt this was the way it had to be, and I'm really sorry if it offends anyone!  
Also, if you're not familiar with the drugs mentioned, i recommend you wiki them, as it may help your understanding of the story. other than that.. I hope everyone enjoys!  
*title courtesy of bright eyes, description courtesy of dr. manhattan

Story by HeartOfGlass

Author's Notes:

Here it is, finally! I was supposed to spend tonight finishing a research paper but... I was finally on a roll with this! I'm sorry it took so long to complete, finals week is a terrible, awful bitch.  
anyways, I hope everyone enjoys this, and no one is too badly offended. i don't think i'll ever be writing in first person again though, what torture!  
I implore you all to read this from the beginning, because it's really meant to stand as one piece. ~~i'll probably be consolidating all three chapters into one at some point.~~ **DONE!** Clearly =)  
lastly...reviews, please?! I would love you forever and ever. especially since I have a calc final on monday D: and... kind words make that suck less!  
Also... I'm wondering if anyone thinks this needs a noncon warning?

disclaimer: don't own, didn't happen

I’m sitting on a street corner in down town Chicago and it’s nearly four in the morning. Davey’s next to me, like always, rapping his knuckles impatiently on the concrete. I feel like it’s been ages since I’ve been more than two feet away from Davey.

Granted, we are on tour, but I need to breathe. In two days we’ll be returning to California, but it from where I am, two days looks like two years.

I heave a sigh and look at the man beside me. Davey’s thick black hair is pulled back into sloppy, unraveling bun, allowing me a clear view of his face. I watch as his eyes dart back and forth between the two converging roads. To the untrained eye, he probably looks pretty alright, pretty pulled together. To me, it’s obvious he’s a fucking mess.

Though, I’m looking at this with an incredible bias; I know why we’re here, why _he’s_ here. I know what he’s experiencing, emotionally and physically. I know how upset he gets when he runs out of Nembutal.

He’d started tour with an incredible amount, lucky enough to have found someone willing to sell him such a mass quantity. I wish I could say I was surprised that he’d powered through it already, but I’m not.

So that’s why _he’s_ here. He’s waiting for some stranger to show up and fix all of his problems. Some stranger who’s probably so immersed in the world of selling prescription drugs that he’s hardly aware of pop culture at all, let alone who Davey Havok is. It’s different back at home. Back at home he gets it from a guy he knew in high school. Yeah, fucking high school. And that creep apparently has connections all over the country, so he’s got someone on his way now.

But why am _I_ here? Obviously for very different reasons. Unlike Davey, I honestly don’t do drugs. At all. I would say it’s because I love Davey, because I’m a caring friend who wants to be there for him as he spirals downward and lies to everyone he knows. I would say that, but it’s not true. I do love him, but I don’t accompany him on drug deals out of that sort of altruism.

Part of the reason is probably habit; I always go where he goes, and vice versa. He’s my closest friend, after all. A bigger part of it is probably the look he gives me when he tells me that he ‘can’t do this alone.’ I always combat the urge to say ‘of course you can you just don’t want to,’ and instead get lost in his desperate eyes. It evokes the perfect mixture of pity and desire.

One day, I won’t be able stop myself asking _just how desperate are you, Davey?_

“He’s fifteen minutes late.” Davey is staring angrily at the screen on his cell phone, LED light casting a blue glow on his face.

I take a deep breath. I have to be very careful about what I say to Davey in these sorts of situations. What I want to say is never what I’m supposed to say. Gathering my words carefully, I tell him

“Drug dealers can run late just like anyone else. I’m sure he’ll be here eventually.”

I don’t think he notices the slight edge to my tone when I say _drug dealers_. In any other situation I probably would’ve gotten the “Nembutal isn’t an illicit drug” speech, but he’s too wrapped up in his cravings to begin to care.

It’s okay. I know the feeling.

“If he doesn’t show up in the next five minutes I don’t…” his voice is cracking, and he’s clearly distressed. If I ignore that this about drugs, the fact that Davey is upset in turn makes me upset. I don’t like seeing him this way, and I certainly don’t want to know how much worse it’ll get as time goes on. My first instinct is to reach out and touch him, to comfort him with my body in some way, in any way. I have to fight this; it’s not that Davey would reject it, or even care. In fact, he’d probably welcome it.

But I wouldn’t be able to handle it. Especially not in a situation like this, where I’m just disgusted with him enough that I probably wouldn’t have much interest in respecting his boundaries, but not so disgusted that every cubic inch of me doesn’t yearn for him. I don’t see myself really reaching that second point, ever. In any case, this is a dangerous place to be.

“It’ll be okay, Dave.”

He makes a whining noise, beginning to respond, but is cut off by a pair of jocks drunkenly stumbling by.

“Faggot!” One of them calls out. Davey immediately looks at me, painfully oblivious to the fact that that comment was directed to him. To some extent, I can’t blame him for allowing his perception to be skewed by the knowledge he has that I actually am gay. But honestly? I’m not the one wearing PVC, with lipstick residue on the edges of my mouth.

I can’t even begin to count the number of times people have assumed that Davey was ‘the gay one.’ Though, I don’t blame them. I still have to remind myself sometimes…

“Shit, I thought those guys had it.” Davey mutters, eyes once again glued on his phone.

I don’t want to deal with this any longer, so I’m distancing myself. I’m mentally entertaining positively sinful thoughts about Davey’s sexuality and what he may or may not discover if he ever did find himself in bed with a man. The guilt that comes with this sort of thinking is worth the distraction it provides me.

And then something- a way to cut this miserable wait short- occurs to me.

“You know, Davey…” It’s wrong though. It’s a pretty genuinely terrible idea. “I think I have something that might help.”

‘Help’ is a _really_ inappropriate word to use here.  
“Really!?” He practically jumps out of his skin at this notion. “You have something… like Nembutal?”

I think back to seven or so Xanax pills I have left in my hotel room. He won’t know the difference.

“Basically.”

I would’ve regretted speaking up the moment he responded if it weren’t for what I potentially had to gain from this situation.

He narrows his eyes at me. “I thought you were off your anxiety medication.”

Goes to show how much attention he pays to my life these days.

“I am. I have some really heavy stuff that I take PRN. It’s just for panic attacks, really.”

I pray that this will satisfy him, that this will be impetus enough to get him off the street corner and on his way back to the hotel, with me. And before I even realize it, I’m praying that this will land him in my room, even on my bed.

I’m pathetic.

“Are you sure, Jade? If it’s like, something you need, I don’t want to-“

“Yes.”

What a dreadful thing to be sure about. After tonight I know I’ll have no right to openly complain about Davey’s drug use, having helped to facilitate it and all.

I tell myself the horrible, horrible lie that it will be worth it, for both of us.

We stand up in unison and he looks at me, eyes sincerely grateful.

“You’re the best, Jade. I really don’t know what I’d without you.”

I grit my teeth, holding back all of the impulsive, thoughtless responses that come to mind. I want to tell him exactly why I’m not the best, and just what he’d do without me. I want to say that I love him, and ask if we can please bypass the hotel and walk all the way back to California because I cannot take this shit anymore. Mostly, though, what I want to do is push him against the side of the alley way and kiss every ounce of lipstick off his perfect lips. I want to press myself against every inch of his tight, hard body.

“Let’s head back, then?”

It’s not like it’s _that_ hard to stop myself.

He nods, and we begin the twenty minute walk back to our hotel. I consider calling a cab, but I need the time to prepare myself, to consider a few things. If we were suddenly standing in the lobby in two minutes, I wouldn’t know what to do.

Davey is much more at ease now, knowing for sure he has what he needs coming his way. He’s laughing and joking, gesturing animatedly with his hands. When he’s like this, he seems so much like the man I used to know, like Davey before Nembutal. It kills me, but at the same time it lets me feel hopeful, to know that that man still exists, somewhere in that drug-addled body.

I’m doing a lot of smiling and nodding, too immersed in my own thoughts to really participate. It sounds rude, but it’s for the best; I don’t want to get too used to this carefree disposition, or too attached to it. As far as I’m aware, it’ll be gone by tomorrow, and the less I experience it now, the less I’ll miss it then.

But I can watch him without listening. I can appreciate the way his stunning smile complements my considerations of what could happen tonight. His laughter assuages my guilt, tells me that this is so right, and that I’m not helping anyone ruin their life or anything like that. I forget for a few minutes about what a selfish bastard I am.

Suddenly, much sooner than I expected, we’re at the hotel. My heart is racing already, palms sweating, and I become acutely aware of how nervous I am. Spitting the words out before I can think better of it, I tell him

“You can… come up with me, to my room, and I’ll just… grab them for you.”

Obviously he also could wait in his room while I bring them over, but I was hoping this wouldn’t occur to him. Or if it did occur to him, would somehow seem less appealing than going with me.

He smiles and nods earnestly. “That’d be great.” I pretend his enthusiasm isn’t for the drugs.

In the cramped heat of the elevator, his scent is almost overwhelming. The ripe smell of sweat mixes with the extremely clean, fresh smell of his deodorant. The combination of these odors is so strongly linked to touring in my mind that it draws out borderline painful nostalgia if I catch a whiff in the ‘off season.’ Every once and a while, when I attend a show with Davey, it happens, and I’m taken back to whatever our last tour was almost instantly. I hate it.

We’re headed to the tenth floor, third wing: Room 1018. Generally, I avoid letting others into my room at all costs. I cherish solitude probably more than anyone else in this band, and do my best to preserve it.

Even though Davey knows this, he doesn’t offer to wait outside as I slide the plastic key card through the scanner. He quietly follows me in, letting the door close behind him.

He watches from the far side of the room as I dig through my bag and check the labels on the orange bottles until I find the right one. As I empty the bottle into my hand, I debate telling him just how different Xanax is from Nembutal.

“What is it, anyway?” he asks.

“Seconal.” I lie. There’s no point in being honest; if he realizes it’s not a barbiturate, he’ll back on the street in no time, doing god knows what to get what he wants.

He looks at me enviously. “You’re _on_ secobarbital?”

I almost laugh. I want to ask him if he really thinks it’d be worth it to have panic disorder if it meant you’d get barbs. I don’t though, because I know the answer would be yes.

“It’s only for emergencies so… I don’t take it too much.”

I drop the tablets onto the bedside table.

“There. Don’t take them all tonight…”

“You know I wouldn’t, Jade. I know my limits. I’ll take one… see if it’s enough. These are 2 milligrams?”

I nod, watching as he stuffs six of the pills into his pocket, swallowing the seventh dry. _Please let that be enough._

“Thank you so, so much, Jade.”

As if this whole situation doesn’t have me feeling shitty enough, I see him pull out his wallet and extract a wad of bills.

“Christ Dave, I don’t want your money. Don’t be ridiculous.” If I don’t accept the money, I can feel that much less like a drug dealer.

“Are you sure? I mean… yeah, I guess I understand how that would be sort of…can I do anything else for you?”

What an absolutely unreasonable question.

“Don’t worry about it,” I choke out, paralyzed as I realize what I’ve just done. A small part of me is hoping he’ll just leave, before I can do any more damage. However, that hope is greatly overshadowed by just how good Davey looks in the dim light of the hotel room, wearing the same clothes he’d put on almost twelve hours ago. Even the heavy August heat can’t keep him from looking ravishing.

For a moment the silence hangs heavy between us. It would be awkward, except I can tell he wants to say something, I can see his wheels turning. My heart beat increases, just a little, as I see him take a breath and open his mouth.

“Is it okay if I take a shower? Here?”

Without thinking I blurt “What?” My eyes are wide, brows raised in surprise. I certainly hadn’t been expecting that.

Noting my confusion, he offers “I’m still absolutely disgusting from the show, clearly…” Though he doesn’t seem quite convinced himself.

Sure he’s dirty, but why isn’t he going to shower in his own room? It’s just down the hall. Beyond that, I can’t believe he’s decided to stay, without any invitations, any hints. Does he want this? Could he really fucking want this? Or is he just lonely? Dear god I hope it’s not the latter. I try to tell myself that I know Davey well enough to tell the difference between him being lonely and him… spontaneously wanting to use my shower at 5 in the morning, for other reasons.

“Yeah, of course. Go right ahead.” I gesture to the bathroom tactlessly, and, unsurprisingly, it’s almost as if I’m the one who’s asking for this, not Davey.

“Thanks man.”

I gawk at him a bit as he disappears behind the sliding door, trying to understand what his intentions are. I’ve almost completely forgotten about the Xanax, and am more much caught up in wondering what the hell is going on. I try to stop myself from believing that something good is going to happen tonight, but my mind is already wandering.

I sit stiffly on the edge of the overstuffed hotel bed, taupe and cream striped comforter wrinkling beneath me. Suddenly, my tie is too tight and my shirt is too heavy and I think I have an erection. My clothes have to come off.

First the tie, so I can breathe (sort of.) Next my fingers are tripping over the buttons on my shirt, rushing to free my damp, heaving chest. Davey is naked, in the shower, feet from where I’m standing. I struggle to strip off my skin tight jeans, fabric clinging to my legs with sweat. Davey is about to feel the effects of Xanax. My Xanax.

Shit. I could use a Xanax.

But when I’m free from the heat of my clothes, I find it a bit easier to calm myself down. Dismissing negative thoughts is much less difficult when you have something truly compelling to combat them with. For example: mental images of beautiful man groping his own bare, wet skin.

I’m already massaging myself roughly through the thin cotton of my boxers. It’s not _that_ creepy, I tell myself, because I’m not actually touching my dick.

And because maybe this is what Davey wants. Right?

Somewhat drunk with arousal, I find these to be perfectly reasonable justifications for masturbating while my best friend is in the shower, one thin wall away.

Anyways, the only new element here is proximity; it’s not like I’ve never touched myself to thoughts of Davey. I got over the perversion of that years ago.

The first time I did it, it was hardly weeks after I met him, before I was really aware of my preference for men. I felt incredibly guilty and confused afterwards, and didn’t go near my own cock for about a month.

At the end of that month, it was Davey again. I couldn’t physically be around him as much as I was without allowing myself some sort of release. The entire situation was probably exacerbated by the fact that I was a virgin at the time, and struggling to come to terms with my homosexuality.

Davey was irresistible, exuding sex appeal in ways that I’d been unaware of a person ever could. His friends all told me he was straight, though no one knew much about his “love” life beyond that. I resigned myself to failure without even trying, and coped with the rejection by blowing my load every night with his name on my lips.

Obviously this sort of behavior diminishes when I’m involved with someone else, but being in the band is so time consuming, that’s a rare occurrence. On tour, it’s all inescapable. The worst traits I imagine myself to posses begin to surface, and by the time we’re back home I’m always absolutely fraught with self-disgust.

In two days, that’s where I’ll be. But right now, I’m splayed on a hotel bed, rubbing myself raw, both excited and terrified for the moment when I hear the shower shut off.

In my fantasies, it’s always Davey who wants it more than me. It’s Davey who’s desperate, who’s surrendered himself to physical drives. I imagine him rushing into my room, slamming the door, and insisting that I put my mouth around his cock right that instant. Or ordering me to bend over a table and drop trou because he’s spent all day wondering just how tight I am, and he simply must know for sure. I can almost hear him whispering graphic, sinful things to me, can almost feel him fucking me like his life depends on it.

God only knows how Davey _actually_ is during sex. The most any of us know about his sex life is that it exists, to one extent or another, and is ostensibly dominated by heterosexuality. Beyond that, it’s a complete mystery to all who are not directly involved. Davey’s incredibly private about those sorts of things, to a fault, if you ask me.

A glance at the digital clock on the bedside table tells me almost fifteen minutes have passed since Davey went to shower, and morning is fast approaching. It occurs to me for the first time that I should probably be tired, if not exhausted. At this point I’ve been awake close to twenty hours, and have not once entertained the thought of sleep.

I’m running on fumes, as well as delusions, and a bit of sexual energy. It’s all bound to run out sooner or later.

Before I can further ponder my sleep deprivation, I hear the hum of the shower come to an abrupt halt. I leap to the floor in a panic, cock still leaking into my boxers, and grab the first piece of fabric I see.

I barely have the shirt over my head when the door to the bathroom slides open. I’ve strategically placed myself on my knees, obscured by the bed from the waist down, so Davey can remain oblivious while I will my erection away.

“Jade?” Davey pokes his head out of the doorway, a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Yeah?” My response comes automatically while I smooth down my hair, hoping he doesn’t notice the pink in my cheeks, or the sweat on my brow.

My heart is pounding so hard that the pulse seems to wrack my entire body. Surely if my shirt were off, Davey would’ve seen the outline of it as it thrashed against the inside of my chest, threatening to beat its way right through my skin and bone. Was this it? Was he going to ask if I’d come in? Or if he could come out, dripping wet and modestly clad in a clean white towel?

“Do you have some clothes I could borrow? Obviously mine are… un-wearable.”

I felt my adrenaline levels plunge as a wash of disappointment and relief came over me.

“Of course.” _Of course_ he just wants some fucking clothes. _Obviously_ his are un. wearable. I’m such an idiot.

I rifle through my bag and pull out the only shirt I have that comes close to fitting him, and my nicer pair of sweat pants. I toss, Davey catches.

He stands in the doorway, holding the clothes by their very edges so the pants are nearly touching the floor. There’s not much of an expression on his face, save the faintest hint of a smile I detect in his eyes.

“What?”

“I haven’t been wearing any underwear all night. They don’t blend well with PVC so…”

I really wasn’t expecting that he’d be the one making me blush. My face grows hot as my hands return to my bag, searching for an extra pair of briefs. Davey hates boxers.

“Oh… yeah sure, just a sec…”

I pull out my last pair and throw them his way. Not moments after they land at his feet does he let the towel drop from around his waist, showing no concern at all about flashing me. I want to ask what the hell he’s doing, but by the time I come up with an appropriate string of words, he’s half dressed. The underwear and sweatpants have disappeared from the floor, onto his perfect form.

“Thanks Jade.”

He looks awkward in my pants, despite them fitting him relatively well. After seeing him night after night in outfits that looked to be painted on him, anything else simply didn’t do his body justice. Luckily, he never got around to putting the shirt on.

My eyes follow him as he walks to the TV cabinet and picks up the remote. I’m watching closely for some evidence of the drug in his movements, but he seems fairly normal, though less interested than usual in finding for a watchable channel. After surfing for all of five seconds, he settles on an ESPN, which appears to be recapping a Mets game.

A tacky ‘I didn’t know you followed sports’ joke is forming in my mind, but a look from Davey shuts me up before I can so much as part my lips.

He knows I didn’t give him barbs. Of course he knows. What on earth possessed me to think I’d be able to fool him?

“It’s Xanax.” I blurt out. “I’m really sorry Dave… I just wanted to help.” But the truth is, I’m only sorry he realized it.

He stares up at me for a good half-minute. His eyes are black and white, warm brown irises consumed by his over dilated pupils. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, or if any thoughts at all are making their way through the Xanax haze that’s no doubt clouding his frontal lobe.

“It’s okay… it definitely takes the edge off.”

Truthfully, he does seem more at ease than he was before.

He lazily pats the area of the bed next to him. “Sit with me?”

Delighted, I obey, and as soon as I’m seated beside him, his head falls onto my shoulder. While this sort of contact isn’t that unusual, it excites me every time.

What excites me even more is his hand snaking around my waist as we pretend to watch the game. Taking the only chance I’ll probably ever have, I move closer to him, and rest my hand on his upper thigh. It’s a gauche, rom-com worthy version of a come on, but it’s the best I can come up with short of straight-up mauling him. Still, I feel a bit sleazy and ridiculous.

“Is this okay?”

“I mean…” He picks his head up and looks at my hand for a second, then nods. “Yeah.”

Somehow I’m able to ignore that fact that any consent I earn comes directly from the Xanax, and not from Davey at all.

“Good.” I hadn’t meant to necessarily say that out loud, but he doesn’t seem to care. I get the feeling he doesn’t find this situation nearly as awkward as I do, and I have a pretty good guess as to why.

I figure it’s better to at least try something, rather than sit uncomfortably with my hand inches from his crotch. It takes mounds of courage, but I finally convince myself to start kissing his neck before I can think better of it. I can feel his slow pulse under my lips, and I worry for a second about just how much Xanax he took.

Interrupting my train of thought, he nudges my head up with his shoulder. My heart sinks and I begin preparing an apology for my creepy, inappropriate behavior. At least he probably won’t remember it tomorrow.

But to my great surprise, he leans over and kisses me softly on the lips.

I keep my eyes wide open at first to make sure this is really happening. As far as I can tell, it’s absolutely real, as impossible as it seems. Ecstatic, I wrap my hand around the back of his head, pulling him into a deeper kiss. I suck at his lips, like tasting him is the most important thing I’ve ever done.

Long before I’m ready, he pulls away.

“Is everything okay?” He looks pretty happy, but it’s worth checking.

“I just wanted to tell you, Jade… you mean so much to me and I really feel…”

No.

I don’t want to hear about his feelings, and I’m sure as hell not getting into mine. As far as I’m concerned, this isn’t about feelings, or love, or anything like that. I want to fuck Davey out of pure carnal desire, not for some bullshit emotional connection that’ll never really be fulfilled.

I press my mouth firmly against his before he can finish his sentence, forcing whatever words he had left back into his throat.

He responds with a grunt, and I can’t tell if it’s out of pleasure or protest, so I don’t give it too much thought. Every noise he makes is beautiful, and unthinkably arousing. Encouraged, I slip my tongue between his loosely closed lips, probing for another response. The need to hear some form of his voice is so strong, I’m ready to beg. To my surprise, I immediately feel wet, warm flesh push sloppily into my mouth, but he makes no sound.

I can’t help but wonder what he’s like when he beds women, and is not on drugs. Is he more assertive, more graceful? The mental imagine of him with a female form is somewhat off-putting, but it reminds me of what a feat this is.

_Davey_ , I want to ask him, _do you even know what you want?_

Growing impatient, I move my hand from his thigh to his crotch, grabbing at his half-formed erection. The thick material of the sweatpants makes it difficult to maintain any sort of grip, but it’s enough; Davey lets out a loud groan, scooting forward.

Finally the whole situation is starting to feel real to me. Davey’s voice is so detectable in even the smallest sound, constantly reminding me that he is, in fact, the man I’m with. That was not the pleasured groan of some stranger I’d picked up at a club; that was emitted from Davey Havok himself, and it was only the beginning.

“Davey?” I pull out of the kiss, but let my hand rest on what is now a fully fledged hard-on.

He’s leaning back on his elbows, looking complacent, and incredibly dazed.

“Mmm?”

“Is it… Can I…” _Shit_. What a perfectly awful time to get tongue-tied. It’s not that I’m embarrassed or anything- the time for that has long since passed. It’s just that there will always be something slightly intimidating about Davey. Having him stretched out in front of me, somewhat ready, and more willing than he’d ever be, is overwhelming.

“Do you want to give me head?” he seems mostly unfazed, maybe a bit apprehensive. He doesn’t protest though, so I don’t press him further.

Instead, I take the opportunity to pull my sweatpants and underwear off his hips. I should relish the moment more- I’ve only been fantasizing about this for years- but I’m too driven by what lies ahead to pause even for a second. In one swift motion I expose him.

“You’re really going to?” he asks, sounding mildly surprised as I lower myself between his legs. I can’t bring myself to say yes, so instead I stare hard into his massive pupils for a couple of seconds, before bowing my head.

Forgoing the foreplay I’d afford just about anyone else, I plunge mouth-first onto his cock. He’s thick, but not longer than average, allowing me to take in every inch, until my nose is buried in wiry black pubes.

Just as I being to slide my lips down towards his head, he starts talking.

“Jade, you know… I’m not gay or bi anything, it’s just… you.”

I call bullshit in my head, but I only look up at him in response, continuing to apply light suction. I don’t want to get into trying to understand why he’s making excuses, I’m just glad he has something to excuse.

“I mean, well… you are really pretty. Kind of like a girl, actually. You’ve got awfully nice legs, and lips…”

He continues prattling on while I bob up and down his shaft, hollowing my cheeks to create the perfect little vacuum in my mouth. Every so often, I pull back and eagerly lick the drops of precum welling at his tip. The savory, salty taste leaves me yearning for more, and I recall old fantasies I’ve had of swallowing his seed by the mouthful. It almost makes me want to finish him off by mouth, just to feel it hot on my tongue, thick as it drips down the back of my throat.

But, to be frank, I’m praying he’s up for a good old fashioned fuck.

“I don’t usually find guys attractive at all. I guess. You know what… that’s actually sort of a lie…”

I don’t imagine Davey as an inhibited person to begin with, but the Xanax _really_ loosens him up. He’s not stopped spewing thoughts for a few minutes now, and I can only guess that he’s merely verbalizing everything that comes into his consciousness. The plus side to this is that I’m able to hear every hitch in his voice, every word that becomes a gasp, in reaction to my oral talents.

“But I mean, I find a lot of things attractive that I don’t necessarily want to be sexual with, like birds, and artwork…”

It takes a lot of concentration not to snicker at that, but luckily I have plenty to focus on. His fingers are wandering all over my head, threading through my hair, stroking my face. He stops to prod at the bulge right above my jaw, where I have his cock pressed firmly against the inside of my cheek.

“Oh!” He realizes what he’s discovered moments after the pleasure hits him. “You’re a lot better at this than women, probably because you understand how… you actually have, you know, a dick…”

I smile as best as I can while my tongue cradles his shaft. My conscience immediately scolds me for finding any amusement in his drug-induced banter. I should feel so much guiltier than I do.

Instead of dwelling on my moral fallacies, I decide it’s about time to move on. It seems to me like Davey’s going to cum or fall asleep at any moment, and I’d hate to have wasted this opportunity on a blowjob.

Of course, it’s an opportunity for Davey too, I assure myself. It’s so much easier to believe these sorts of things when I’m aroused. Rationality is lost in the fog of lust that envelops my cognition, and all I can feel right now is _very fucking good._

I drag my tongue down the underside of his swollen member, continuing until I reach his scrotum. He’s stopped talking for the most part, perhaps intrigued by where I’m headed. I’d assume he was asleep if it wasn’t for the tiny whimpering noises he makes as I lap at his ballsac.

I move down his perineum, towards my final destination.

“Jade…”

I have to pull him forward a bit before the pink pucker of his anus is exposed, but he scoots willingly.

“What are you…”

I flick my tongue at the tiny opening, thanking god that Davey recently showered. The moment I make contact, he shudders and gasps. It’s fairly obvious, though not surprising, that this is entirely new to him. Since he doesn’t seem opposed, I carry on fervently, jamming my tongue inside his asshole without hesitation.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and I wish so badly that I could see the look on his face. Encouraged nonetheless, I swirl my hardened tongue around inside him as deeply as I can, eating him out with all the passion I can muster.

In less than a minute, he’s dripping with my saliva, and once again I’m beginning to feel that my clothes _have_ to come off.

I move away, bitter taste still strong in my mouth, and yank off my boxers, then my shirt. With my erection entirely exposed, there’s almost no amount of will power that can keep me from fisting my badly neglected cock.

Davey props himself up, looking confused.

“What’re you doing?” He sounds more curious than nervous, or angry, but I still struggle to come up with an answer. I’m not sure how well he’d react if I told him I was getting ready to fuck him, or anything like that.

On the other hand, I don’t want to lie, so instead, I climb wordlessly onto the bed, knees planted on either side of his waist. My hands explore the damp, yet oddly cold, skin of his torso. I trace his collar bones, then move down his sternum to his flat, hard stomach. Brightly colored tattoos obscure most of his pale flesh, serving as another blissful reminder that this _is_ Davey, that this is really happening.

“Jade?” He sounds ever so slightly concerned, maybe unnerved by my silence, so I respond instinctively.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, but I realize it’s directed more towards myself than Davey.

One hand has found the cleft of his impressively sculpted ass, and is digging for his entrance.

“Oh…Jade, are you going to…”

A single finger slides in easily, lubricated by the spit I’d left, and possibly some amount of sweat.

He grunts loudly, cursing under his breath.

“That feels good?”

“Yeah…mostly.”

I let him adjust, reaching over the side of the bed with my free hand to rummage around my bag in search of lube. I pull out a mostly full iridescent navy bottle, eyes locked on Davey’s face to gauge his reaction.

“That’s lube,” he comments dumbly, expression unreadable.

I nod as I retract my finger, pouring a small amount of the viscose liquid into my palm. He’s silent as he watches me slick it over my shaft, eyes transfixed on my glistening skin. He’s looking at me like I’ve never seen him look at anyone before, and I almost forget that I’m prepping myself, not masturbating for him.

I stop while I still have lube left on my fingers, and move again to Davey’s anus. I realize my hearts pounding, and my stomach’s knotted with anticipation. I’m excited enough that I don’t notice Davey’s slight apprehension as I push not one, but two slick digits inside him.

“Jade… I don’t know, I’ve never… done this before.”

Like I don’t know that.

“Don’t worry.” I work on making my voice as soothing as possible, though I’m guessing with the Xanax this won’t take much convincing. “It’ll feel good.” I slowly move my fingers apart in a gentle scissoring motion. This is somewhat difficult as he’s incredibly tight, but I can only imagine how good that clenched muscle is going to feel around my cock.

“But it sort of hurts.”

“It gets better, just relax.” I’m not entirely sure how true this is. My first time receiving feels like a lifetime ago. After taking countless men, all I can think of is how much I adore the sensation. In fact, I’d have Davey be the top if it weren’t for the fact that he’d probably doze off, or, at best, run out of energy in minutes. Plus, he’d have to be playing a much more active role in this.

“It does?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He’s as willing to believe me as I’d hoped he’d be. I celebrate the small victory by adding a third finger, eliciting a moan. The time it takes to prepare him is killing me, and I have to keep reminding myself to take it slowly. If this were anyone else but Davey, I’d have probably lost my patience a while ago.

It’s hard to know when to stop, especially considering Davey can’t offer any feedback, so eventually I decide for myself, based on how antsy I’m feeling. I also convince myself that I ought to get going before the lube I used on myself dries.

It takes Davey a moment to figure out why I pulled my hand away, but when he does I see the realization register on his face. At that moment, I move so that I’m kneeling between his legs, then grab his thighs and lay them loosely around my waist.

In my fantasies, this is the part where Davey always begs, where he tells me how badly he wants me. I want to believe that he’s tortured by how close my genitals are to his entrance, but he seems curious at best, ambivalent at worst.

Determined to prove to him that sex with a man has mind-blowing potential, I’ve already made myself nervous. It’s unreasonable because I’m sure he won’t remember most of the specifics, but it’s hard for me to put my mind that far in the future.

“Are you ready?” I ask him. It’s meant to be less of a question though, and more of a warning.

“I think so.” He looks relaxed enough, wet black hair sloppily fanned out on the comforter, framing his pale face. Suddenly, I want to touch it, I want to untangle every strand. I want to caress his face, do every gentle loving thing possible.

Before my hands can betray me, I grab his hips and guide him onto my throbbing erection, until I’m buried in the bliss that is his virgin asshole. I exhale, relieved that I successfully avoided getting all…romantic.

He cries out instantly, conveying some mixture of pain and pleasure. I want more than anything to pull back and simply plow him, but he obviously needs time to adjust.

This is the sort of unglamorous technicality that I always overlook when this scene plays out in my head. Regardless, it’s probably one of the most amazing things I’ve ever felt. I can honestly say that this already tops any sex I’ve ever had, by a large margin. Though, my opinion is heavily affected by the fact that I’m able to see every naked inch of Davey’s roman-statue body.

Every single thing about it is erotic- the way his damp skin slides over his ribcage and obliques with every breath he takes, the sweat clinging to his throat and bobbing Adam’s apple. I almost can’t stand the subtle look of concentration on his face, eyes focused on the ceiling, as he squirms to find comfort.

Forgetting to ask how he feels, I rock my hips back then forward in shallow thrusts. The friction is incredibly gratifying, and before I can stop myself, I’m increasing my pace.

Davey winces every once and while, but moans loudly each time my hips connect with his buttocks. His cock is still erect, bouncing up and down against his stomach in rhythm with my movements.

“Jesus fucking Christ, _Davey_ …you feel incredible.” His eyes meet mine when he hears his name, looking somewhat attentive for the first time since his shower.

“Jade…am I bleeding?”

I don’t look down because I don’t want to know the answer. “It’s normal, don’t worry,” I tell him, while telling myself that he’s perfectly fine.

“Alright.” He pauses, eyes still on me. “Can you slow down?”

I would slow down, if everything didn’t feel so fucking good right now. In an effort to distract him, I wrap my long fingers around his shaft and pump ardently.

“Jade, _please_.”

For some reason, the plea barely registers. I fist him faster, and begin aiming for his prostate, hoping to replace whatever pain he’s feeling with pleasure.

“It’s okay,” I pant between thrusts, “I’m… _we’re_ almost done.”

Sure enough, a few more pumps and he’s spilling thick white semen all over his stomach, groaning loudly and chanting incomprehensible curses. Watching him soil himself like that almost does it for me, so I drive my hips forward harder, urging on my climax.

“Jade!”

I think I hear him yell for me to stop, but it’s already too late. My orgasm is ripping through me, setting every muscle alight with pleasure. I can feel my warm seed filling him, lubricating my final thrusts.

As the intoxication of arousal ebbs away, a deep sense of guilt floods my stomach. I watch Davey back away slowly, a marbled mixture of blood and cum dripping onto his thighs. Suddenly, what was a fantasy-come-true feels more like an inescapable nightmare.

I want to apologize, but I feel like if I open my mouth, I’ll vomit. I can only look on with horror as Davey slinks lethargically to the bathroom to clean himself up.

If there was any cure for my resentment of Davey’s drug habit, this was it. I had officially trumped him in every monstrous, deplorable way possible. In my blind desperation to satisfy my pathetic, aching needs, I’d obliterated years of friendship, trust, and anything good that ever existed between us. Will he remember all the gory details? Maybe, maybe not. Will I ever be able to look him in the eye again? I doubt it.

To my surprise, I hear him call my name from inside the bathroom.

“Jade?”

Maybe he wants to kill me. Hopefully.

“Do you have any more of that…uh, what is it…Xanax?”

If possible, I feel even sicker. Hoping he’s just made some sort of mistake I call back:

“I gave you the rest of my supply so… the other pills are in your pocket. Right?”

He emerges from the bathroom, a towel around his waist, finally wearing the shirt I gave him earlier.

He shakes his head. “I took them all.”

“God, please don’t tell me that, Dave.”

He just shrugs, putting on the sweatpants and briefs I loaned him.

“You probably shouldn’t leave Dave. I mean, that’s an overdose and you… something could happen!” My voice is high pitched and cracking with all sorts of emotion, but Davey seems unmoved.

“I’m going back to my room.” He states, and heads for the door.

“Davey please!” But no amount of begging will sway him. He exits the room without so much as a glance over his shoulder, and I’m left in a state of full blown panic.

Sleep escapes me, and I can’t bring myself to go near the bed, stained with Davey’s blood and other evidence of the dirty, awful, unforgivable things I did.

I spent the next two hours sitting against the wall, watching the sunrise and wondering whether or not Davey will be present when we meet in the lobby tomorrow before leaving for Austin.

  
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